


Surprise Gift

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Anthea Ships It [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Christmas traditions, It's a Wonderful Life, M/M, anthea ships it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:28:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21532999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Mycroft's following his usual Christmas Tradition, but someone else has ideas of their own about how to improve things. All he has to do is not mess it up.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: Anthea Ships It [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1871896
Comments: 42
Kudos: 273
Collections: Mystrade Holiday 2019





	Surprise Gift

Mycroft squeezed his eyes closed for a long second. The end of ‘It’s A Wonderful Life’ was one of his favourites, and he knew he didn’t blink as often while watching it. Given its Yuletide theme, Mycroft only allowed himself to view it in mid-December. He missed it in other times of the year, but held resolute. It wouldn’t be as special if he watched in July, or March, or October.

“’Scuse me, mate,” a voice came, pulling him back to the movie theatre.

He smiled automatically, pulling his knees in to allow the older couple to step past him. This year’s screening had been more crowded than usual. He wondered if the downturn in the economy had resulted in more people using their tickets this year. Perhaps so – his office carefully selected people to receive the free passes every year. It was the only way he could recapture some semblance of the excitement of this time of year. His usual security protocols made something like visiting the theatre impossible; too many variables, strangers in a dark room. This little charade was the only abuse of his considerable power, and he suspected Anthea saw it as an indulgence. She arranged the whole thing, explaining it to his superiors in a manner that made him seem more empathetic.

He was fairly sure nobody knew he attended, too.

9.45pm on Christmas Eve-Eve, the perfect time to watch ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’, in his opinion. The first of three days out of the office, only emergency situations forwarded to him, and Anthea made sure they were genuine, averting-imminent-nuclear-war type issues. The film always began promptly, resulting in a midnight finish time, and Mycroft, the last to leave the theatre, walked back into the real world just as Christmas Eve was beginning. He always reflected on his viewing experience; comparing it to previous years, attempting to identify the events of the year that may have influenced his interpretation this year.

It was a solitary tradition, but he found a quiet satisfaction in it.

Last year, he’d almost decided to stay home. The prospect of Christmas was always inviting, but as December wore on, longer and lonelier than he could remember, Mycroft felt less and less that there was anything to celebrate. As it was, the film uplifted him only briefly; his stomach had fizzled at the sound of his mobile in the car on the way home, signalling Anthea’s call. He’d redirected the car before answering, correctly anticipating a very long night and morning of negotiations.

This year, before he could concoct a plan not to attend, Anthea had taken it out of his hands.

“The Andersons have attended every year for over a decade,” she told him, “and they very much want to meet you. I’ve told them you’ll meet them in the foyer at 9.30.”

Ten minutes of polite small talk, Mycroft thought, before the movie began. He almost rebuked her, so close he’d already drawn breath to do so before changing his mind. It was only a few minutes, and missing the film would be worse, in a way. Spoiling the tradition would make him feel worse, not better.

Surprisingly, the short conversation with Mr and Mrs Anderson was pleasant enough. Mrs Anderson was one of those ladies who managed to sound fondly exasperated with people she barely knew, and Mycroft found himself being gently scolded over his lack of social life. In the same breath she was genuinely praising him for his efforts organising this evening out, “It’s such a lovely idea, Jimmy Stewart to welcome in Christmas, and not having to worry about the price of tickets is so generous, we certainly couldn’t have afforded it otherwise…”

The wine probably helped too; Mr Anderson, a quiet man, matched Mycroft’s two glasses before the show began.

“You’ve probably had enough of me wittering on, we’ll let you sit on your own and enjoy the picture. Do take some time for yourself this Christmas, won’t you Mr Holmes?”

And now it was over for another year. Mycroft sighed, looking around the empty cinema.

Almost empty.

A single person still sat in a seat on the side of the theatre, several rows in front of Mycroft. The silver head was familiar, somehow, though his mind was a little slow and he couldn’t immediately place it. An unusual position to find himself in; generally he was able to put a name to every person that passed him. It was as much an occupational hazard as a matter of habit.

Still watching the lone person, Mycroft checked his phone – another long held habit. It was 12.02am. Christmas Eve had begun. Absently, he wondered if it had snowed in the hours he’d been in the cinema. Meteorologists had come as close as they ever did to promising a white Christmas, but so far a few isolated flurries was all London had seen. Another memory from his youth he wasn’t quite able to recapture.

“Mycroft?”

Startled, Mycroft dropped his phone. He was torn for a second – look at the person or retrieve his phone? Instinct won out and he glanced up, freezing when the familiar face looked back.

“Good evening,” he managed as Lestrade smiled at him. Fumbling, Mycroft groped under his seat for his phone. It would have been all but impossible if Lestrade hadn’t used the torch on his own phone to show Mycroft where to look.

“Thank you,” Mycroft murmured. “If I might be so forward, Detective Inspector, what brings you to this screening?”

“It’s Greg,” came the reply. “And I thought you sent me a ticket?”

“Did I?” Mycroft asked. His face burned as he realised Anthea, in some kind of misguided attempt at…something, had invited him. They stared at each other for a long moment before Mycroft’s phone buzzed. Out of habit he looked down at the screen.

_He thinks you’re going out for a drink, too._

_Go ahead, and Merry Christmas._

_A x_

Mycroft breathed deeply, running his tongue over his teeth as he considered how best to deal with this. ‘This’ being both Lestrade and Anthea. The latter would wait, of course, although thinking about the best way to fire her would be satisfying, if nothing else.

As for Lestrade, he was right here, expectantly waiting for Mycroft to stop being so rude as to stare at his phone.

“Apologies,” Mycroft said, and for a long second he didn’t know if he was going to excuse himself, blame Anthea for the misunderstanding, or…

“I understand you’re amenable to a drink?”

“Yep,” Gregory said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Did you have somewhere in mind?”

 _I don’t know, did I?_ Mycroft thought sardonically. He took a moment to consider Anthea’s motives and likely process.

“I have a car waiting,” Mycroft said with a confidence he didn’t feel. Anthea could be predictable, of course, but as he hadn’t anticipated this play, there was the chance she’d taken steps he wouldn’t foresee.

“Lead on, then,” Gregory said. They made their way out of the cinema and into the deserted lobby. This late there were a couple of movies still showing, but patrons did not linger, so nobody saw them cross the carpet out into the street. It was cold, but there was no evidence of snow having fallen.

To Mycroft’s relief his car was waiting. Gregory ducked his head to enter, and Mycroft took the opportunity to murmur, “You have instructions, I presume?”

“I do, sir,” Frank the driver replied. He didn’t smile, precisely, but Mycroft still had the distinct impression he was amused.

“Very good,” Mycroft said. He wasn’t going to demean himself by asking what they were; instead he lowered his own head to slide into the seat beside Gregory.

It was strange thinking of him like that.

“Did you enjoy the movie?” Gregory asked, fastening his seatbelt.

“I did,” Mycroft replied. “It’s my favourite Christmas film.”

“I don’t mind Jimmy Stewart,” Gregory replied, “but I’ve gotta say I lean more towards a different genre of classic.”

“Oh?” Mycroft asked. He found himself turning a little in his seat to better see Gregory.

“Three guesses,” Gregory said, grinning. He was obviously enjoying himself, eyes warm on Mycroft as he leaned back against the leather seat. Of course he was, he thought they were on a date, Mycroft thought to himself. Interesting that he’d allowed the charade to continue…

“Three guesses,” Mycroft repeated. He tilted his head, thinking about everything he knew of Gregory as his eyes lingered on the silver hair, the amusement dancing around the tanned mouth. He relaxed his usual strictures and opened his mouth to make his deductions.

“You don’t watch a lot of films,” Mycroft said. “You’re more likely to watch a Christmas episode of a television show than a movie, but I would wager that you consider Die Hard to be a Christmas film.”

Gregory’s eyebrows rose. “Good one,” he said. “Bonus points if you can pick the TV show?”

“The Vicar of Dibley,” Mycroft shot back, “though I have to admit Sherlock mentioned your enjoyment of that show in passing recently.”

“Of course he did,” Gregory said good-naturedly. “I loaned my copy to John. Sherlock wasn’t all that impressed, but John told me he needed the rest of the series for research.” Gregory added air quotes to the last word, leaving no doubt as to whether he’d believed Sherlock or not.

“I would not have come to that conclusion without Sherlock’s information,” Mycroft admitted. He felt a small smile grow as he added, “Though Die Hard was not difficult to deduce.”

“So I’m guessing you don’t agreed that Die Hard is a Christmas movie, then?” Gregory asked, matching Mycroft’s smile.

“Just because a film is set at Christmas does not make it a Christmas film,” Mycroft asserted. Their conversation was flowing remarkably smoothly, their banter easier than he could have thought. Surely, though, it was his own desire for things to be more than they were. He was reading too much into it. Gregory was enjoying their conversation, nothing more.

“Well, I’ll differ on that point,” Gregory replied. “Please tell me you’ve seen it, though?”

“Of course not,” Mycroft replied immediately. He dared murmur, “Perish the thought.”

Gregory looked startled for a moment, and Mycroft wondered if he’d crossed a line. For a second their eyes met, until Gregory broke into a delighted chuckle. It was low and rich and sent a deep thrill through Mycroft’s belly.

“Of course not,” Gregory repeated, the words bathed in his amusement at his own assumption. “Can I ask how many times you’ve seen ‘It’s A Wonderful Life’?”

“I have fallen into the habit of watching it every year,” Mycroft said, a little uncomfortable in his admission. “I would estimate at least fifty times.”

Gregory nodded. He sat back, eyes still on Mycroft, thinking without judging. “Do you find it means something different every year?”

Mycroft blinked. Gregory had taken him by surprise with such a considered question. “I do,” he said slowly. “I think that’s why I chose to watch it only at this time of year.” Though there was more he wanted to say Mycroft made himself stop talking, well aware of how tedious his explanations were to other people.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Gregory said, his eyes watching Mycroft carefully, “can you tell me what you mean?”

It took a moment for Mycroft to process the question. He frowned, searching Gregory’s face for signs of insincerity, of the mocking he was used to when people asked him to elaborate. The dark eyes were calm and clear, allowing Mycroft to probe for what lay inside without fear.

To Mycroft’s astonishment there was nothing misleading or unkind there, only gently curious. He felt a little guilty for thinking so badly of Gregory, who had never treated him with anything but respect. Some scars ran deep, though, and he couldn’t control his initial reaction to the question.

“My apologies,” Mycroft murmured.

“Don’t,” Gregory replied immediately. “Don’t apologies for being yourself.”

Another first.

“I beg your pardon?”

Gregory shrugged. “Don’t apologise for being yourself,” he said. “I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t like you as you are.”

Mycroft couldn’t ever remember anyone in his personal life validating him with such confidence. From his parents to professional mentors, few had approved of the version of him they had encountered. Over time he’d worked tirelessly to improve himself until he had erased as many of his flaws as possible. Now, of course, his parents were gone and few people were in a position to criticise him.

But while there was nobody left to criticise, neither did anybody compliment him. He never considered it a drawback. Not until now. Not until he heard someone – heard Gregory – say something nice about him. It hit him harder than he thought it might.

“Thank you,” Mycroft managed. Flustered, he looked out the window, then frowned as he realised where they were.

“So, are you going to tell me where we’re going?” Gregory asked.

Mycroft’s initial reaction was to continue with the charade Anthea had set up. He opened his mouth but before he could speak, an impulse shot through him and without thinking, he indulged it.

“I have no idea,” he said honestly.

“What?” Gregory said in confusion.

Mycroft took a deep breath. “I had no idea you were going to be there tonight,” he said. “Anthea is responsible for the specifics of the evening. I believe she,” he cleared his throat, “set us up.”

Face burning, he did not turn away from Gregory. If he could be calm and open while Mycroft examined his expression, Mycroft could do the same, or attempt it, at least. He swallowed hard, waiting for Gregory to grow angry, dismissive or upset.

Instead a slow smile broke over the tanned face. “She could read us both, then?” Gregory murmured.

“You’re not angry?” Mycroft asked, unable to hide his surprise.

“No,” Gregory said. “Actually it’s a bit reassuring.”

“How?” Mycroft asked immediately. He could not in any way see how there was anything reassuring about being in Gregory’s position. Or his own, for that matter.

“Anthea’s pretty perceptive,” Gregory said, grinning, “and she wouldn’t have organised this if she didn’t think we were attracted to each other. So if it was Anthea who did this, there’s a pretty good chance I’m not the only showing signs of being interested.”

Mycroft stared. He had not given Gregory enough credit, that much was patently clear. “You’ve put some thought into this,” he said carefully.

Gregory shrugged. “It’s common sense, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft allowed. Not to me, he thought.

They fell silent. Mycroft felt like Gregory might be waiting for him to do something. Show his hand maybe; indicate whether Anthea had been correct in her summation.

Which, of course, she had. It was bordering on insubordination, arranging this evening, and yet their conversation had brought them here, to where Mycroft had been gifted the most precious of opportunities, one he never even dared himself to consider before now.

A Christmas miracle, perhaps.

Heart thumping, his body moving without seeming to be attached to his brain, Mycroft reached out. His fingers were shaking as they rested on Gregory’s, feather-light in case he pulled away. His breath was caught in his throat, waiting for a response one way or the other. He barely had to wait, though, for as soon as their skin touched, Gregory turned his hand over, entwining their fingers.

The carefully confident touch sparked through Mycroft, and he looked up in shock, his eyes locking on Gregory’s.

“Hi,” Gregory said, his smile gentle. His fingers eased closer, curling in on Mycroft’s, settling closer still.

“Hello,” Mycroft replied, unsure what else to say. There seemed to be an enormous lump in his throat, paralysing his mouth and brain at once.

“I think we might be wherever we’re going,” Gregory said.

Belatedly Mycroft realised the car had stopped. He nodded. Gregory lifted their joined hands to his lips, pressing them to Mycroft’s knuckles.

Mycroft shivered at the contact and the implication of what might be.

Another smile, and Gregory untwined their fingers. They slid out of the car, Mycroft looking around briefly. His heart gave a heavy thud of recognition.

“This is my home,” he told Gregory. With a glance, a nod at Frank, Mycroft lead Gregory up the stairs to his home. He was self-conscious disabling the security; it was excessive by most people’s standards and he was half braced for a derisive comment. None came.

As they entered, Mycroft was alert for anything out of the ordinary. The post-it note on his hall mirror caught his attention immediately.

_Upstairs._

“Shall we?” Mycroft murmured.

A thrill shot through him when Gregory took his hand again, smiling as their skin pressed together once more.

The stairs lead to a second story, and then the roof; a private space Mycroft rarely used. Never well past midnight on Christmas Eve, never with company, and certainly never with the decorations Anthea had smuggled up here.

“Wow,” Gregory murmured. Mycroft knew what he meant.

Fairy lights, a swinging loveseat, a basket of fruit and chocolates. Mycroft could see the top of a bottle of champagne held in an ice bucket.

“Wow,” Mycroft echoed. He shot a look at Gregory, and, heart fluttering, took a risk. “What do you think she had in mind?”

Gregory turned to look at him and Mycroft smiled a little, hoping Gregory understood his dry sense of humour.

“Well,” he said, turning, stepping close to Mycroft, “I think it’s hard to explain.”

“Oh?” Mycroft replied. His heart was still pounding, especially with Gregory now so close.

“Yes,” Gregory all but whispered, a smile playing over his face. “I think I’ll have to show you.”

Mycroft smiled nervously, and his eyes fluttered closed as Gregory’s mouth settled over his.

Now this was a Christmas miracle, he thought to himself.


End file.
